_Of the subtile means whereby Simon leads Mr. Godwin to doubt his wife._
Again must I draw upon matter of after-knowledge to show you how all
things came to pass on this fatal night.
When Mr. Godwin reached London, he went to Sir Peter Lely's house in
Lincoln's Inn, to know if he was still at Hatfield, and there learning
he was gone hence to Hampton, and no one answering for certainty when he
would return, Mr. Godwin, seeing that he might linger in London for days
to no purpose, and bethinking him how pale and sorrowful his dear wife
was when they parted, concludes to leave his picture at Sir Peter Lely's
and post back to Chislehurst, counting to give his wife a happy
surprise.
About eight o'clock he reaches the Court, to find all shut and barred by
the prudent housekeeper, who, on letting him in (with many exclamations
of joy and wonder), falls presently to sighing and shaking her head, as
she tells how her mistress has lain abed since dinner, and is sick of
the biliaries.
In great concern, Mr. Godwin takes the candle from Mrs. Butterby's hand,
and hastes up to his wife's room. Opening the door softly, he enters, to
find the bed tumbled, indeed, but empty. He calls her in a soft voice,
going into the next room, and, getting no reply, nor finding her there,
he calls again, more loudly, and there is no response. Then, as he
stands irresolute and amazed, he hears a knock at the door below, and
concluding that 'tis his wife, who has had occasion to go out, seeking
fresh air for her comfort maybe, he runs swiftly down and opens, ere a
servant can answer the call. And there he is faced, not by sweet Moll,
but the jaundiced, wicked old Simon, gasping and panting for breath.
"Dost thee know," says he, fetching his breath at every other word,
"dost thee know where the woman thy wife is?"
"Where is she?" cries Mr. Godwin, in quick alarm, thinking by this
fellow's sweating haste that some accident had befallen his dear wife.
"I will show thee where she is; aye, and what she is," gasps the old
man, and then, clasping his hands, he adds, "Verily, the Lord hath heard
my prayers and delivered mine enemies into my hand."
Mr. Godwin, who had stepped aside to catch up his hat from the table,
where he had flung it on entering, stopped short, hearing this fervent
note of praise, and turning about, with misgivings of Simon's purpose,
cries:
"What are your enemies to me?"
"Everything," cries Simon. "Mine enemies are thine, for as they have
cheated me so have they cheated thee."
"Enough of this," cries Mr. Godwin. "Tell me where my wife is, and be
done with it."
"I say I will show thee where she is and what she is."
"Tell me where she is," cries Mr. Godwin, with passion.
"That is my secret, and too precious to throw away."
"I comprehend you, now," says Mr. Godwin, bethinking him of the fellow's
greed. "You shall be paid. Tell me where she is and name your price."
"The price is this," returns the other, "thy promise to be secret, to
catch them in this trap, and give no opening for escape. Oh, I know
them; they are as serpents, that slip through a man's fingers and turn
to bite. They shall not serve me so again. Promise--"
"Nothing. Think you I'm of your own base kind, to deal with you in
treachery? You had my answer before, when you would poison my mind,
rascal. But," adds he, with fury, "you shall tell me where my wife is."
"I would tear the tongue from my throat ere it should undo the work of
Providence. If they escape the present vengeance of Heaven, thee shalt
answer for it, not I. Yet I will give thee a clue to find this woman who
hath fooled thee. Seek her where there are thieves and drunkards to mock
at thy simplicity, to jeer at their easy gull, for I say again thy wife
never was in Barbary, but playing the farded, wanton--"
The patience with which Mr. Godwin had harkened to this tirade, doubting
by his passion that Simon was stark mad, gave way before this vile
aspersion on his wife, and clutching the old man by the throat he flung
him across the threshold and shut the door upon him.
But where was his wife? That question was still uppermost in his
thoughts. His sole misgiving was that accident had befallen her, and
that somewhere in the house he should find her lying cold and
insensible.
With this terror in his mind, he ran again upstairs. On the landing he
was met by Mrs. Butterby, who (prudent soul), at the first hint of
misconduct on her mistress's part, had bundled the gaping servants up to
their rooms.
"Mercy on us, dear master!" says she. "Where can our dear lady be? For a
surety she hath not left the house, for I locked all up, as she bade me
when we carried up her supper, and had the key in my pocket when you
knocked. 'See the house safe,' says she, poor soul, with a voice could
scarce be heared, 'and let no one disturb me, for I do feel most heavy
with sleep.'"
Mr. Godwin passed into his wife's room and then into the next, looking
about him in distraction.
"Lord! here's the sweet thing's nightgown," exclaims Mrs. Butterby, from
the next room, whither she had followed Mr. Godwin. "But dear heart o'
me, where's the ham gone?"
Mr. Godwin, entering from the next room, looked at her as doubting
whether he or all the world had taken leave of their wits.
"And the pigeon pasty?" added Mrs. Butterby, regarding the table laid
out beside her mistress's bed.
"And the cold partridge," adds she, in redoubled astonishment. "Why,
here's nought left but my pudding, and that as cold as a stone."
Mr. Godwin, with the candle flaring in his hand, passed hastily by her,
too wrought by fear to regard either the ludicrous or incomprehensible
side of Mrs. Butterby's consternation; and so, going down the corridor
away from the stairs, he comes to the door of the little back stairs,
standing wide open, and seeming to bid him descend. He goes quickly
down, yet trembling with fear that he may find her at the bottom, broken
by a fall; but all he discovers is the bolt drawn and the door ajar. As
he pushes it open a gust of wind blows out the light, and here he stood
in the darkness, eager to be doing, yet knowing not which way to turn or
how to act.
Clearly, his wife had gone out by this door, and so far this gave
support to Simon's statement that he knew where she was; and with this a
flame was kindled within him that seemed to sear his very soul. If Simon
spoke truth in one particular, why should he lie in others? Why had his
wife refused to go with him to Hatfield? Why had she bid no one come
near her room? Why had she gone forth by this secret stair, alone? Then,
cursing himself for the unnamed suspicion that could thus, though but
for a moment, disfigure the fair image that he worshipped, he asked
himself why his wife should not be free to follow a caprice. But where
was she? Ever that question surged upwards in the tumult of his
thoughts. Where should he seek her? Suddenly it struck him that I might
help him to find her, and acting instantly upon this hope he made his
way in breathless haste to the road, and so towards my lodge.
Ere he has gone a hundred yards, Simon steps out of the shadow, and
stands before him like a shade in the dimness.
"I crave thy pardon, Master," says he, humbly. "I spoke like a fool in
my passion."
"If you will have my pardon, tell me where to find my wife; if not,
stand aside," answers Mr. Godwin.
"Wilt thee hear me speak for two minutes if I promise to tell thee where
she is and suffer thee to find her how thee willst. 'Twill save thee
time."
"Speak," says Mr. Godwin.
"Thy wife is there," says Simon, under his breath, pointing towards my
house. "She is revelling with Hopkins and Captain Evans,--men that she
did tramp the country with as vagabond players, ere the Spaniard taught
them more profitable wickedness. Knock at the door,--which thee mayst be
sure is fast,--and while one holds thee in parley the rest will set the
room in order, and find a plausible tale to hoodwink thee afresh. Be
guided by me, and thee shalt enter the house unknown to them, as I did
an hour since, and there thee shalt know, of thine own senses, how thy
wife doth profit by thy blindness. If this truth be not proved, if thee
canst then say that I have lied from malice, envy, and evil purpose,
this knife," says he, showing a blade in his hand, "this knife will I
thrust into my own heart, though I stand the next instant before the
Eternal Judge, my hands wet with my own blood, to answer for my crime."
"Have you finished?" asks Mr. Godwin.
"No, not yet; I hold thee to thy promise," returns Simon, with eager
haste. "Why do men lie? for their own profit. What profit have I in
lying, when I pray thee to put my word to the proof and not take it on
trust, with the certainty of punishment even if the proof be doubtful.
Thee believest this woman is what she pretends to be; what does that
show?--your simplicity, not hers. How would women trick their husbands
without such skill to blind them by a pretence of love and virtue?"
"Say no more," cries Mr. Godwin, hoarsely, "or I may strangle you before
you pass trial. Go your devilish way, I'll follow."
"Now God be praised for this!" cries Simon. "Softly, softly!" adds he,
creeping in the shade of the bank towards the house.
But ere he has gone a dozen paces Mr. Godwin repents him again, with
shame in his heart, and stopping, says:
"I'll go no further."
"Then thee doubtest my word no longer," whispers Simon, quickly. "'Tis
fear that makest thee halt,--the fear of finding thy wife a wanton and a
trickster."
"No, no, by God!"
"If that be so, then art thee bound to prove her innocent, that I may
not say to all the world, thee mightest have put her honour to the test
and dared not--choosing rather to cheat thyself and be cheated by her,
than know thyself dishonoured. If thee dost truly love this woman and
believe her guiltless, then for her honour must thee put me--not her--to
this trial."
"No madman could reason like this," says Mr. Godwin. "I accept this
trial, and Heaven forgive me if I do wrong."